The Gladiator

Chapter VII

The nightmare became part of Spartacus’ life, recurring every week or so. For all that he did his best not to dwell on it, he was unable to dismiss it from his mind entirely. Frustration gnawed at him over its possible meanings, but he didn’t ask Ariadne about it again. He had come to the conclusion that it probably meant his death in the arena. Frustrated by his powerlessness to change that fate, he did his best to bury his concerns. Ariadne knew that Spartacus was still having the dream — he woke her up every time with his thrashing about. Things were complicated by the fact that he’d taken her reassuring touch one night for more than it was, and come on to her. Ariadne had leaped away from him as if he’d poured a pot of scalding water over her. Spartacus’ instant apology had produced nothing but a muttered curse. It had taken days for her frigid disapproval to thaw. He hadn’t tried it on with her again. His memories of rape from his time with the legions were too dark, too savage. Ariadne would consent to sex, or it wouldn’t happen at all. And yet the yoke of his unfulfilled lust was less troubling than his dream of the snake. Spartacus was damned if he would do anything about it again, however. If Ariadne came up with some explanation about it, she could approach him. Angered that both avenues seemed to be dead ends, Spartacus got on with his existence, such as it was. He trained hard. Bound his followers to him. Existed.

The flavour of his reality over the subsequent few months was unvarying. Nightmares. Training. Recruiting men to his cause. Fights. Pressed by Phortis, Amarantus began entering him into single combats in the local arena. He won his first bouts with ease, and the Gaul responded by putting him in against more skilled opponents, often from the ludi in Rome. Spartacus beat them too, learning with each to gain the crowd’s approval from the first moment he walked on to the circle of sand, the gladiator’s world. With each victory, his following within the ludus increased. His status was also augmented by Ariadne’s efforts. She had begun accepting offerings to Dionysus and making requests of the god on behalf of a good number of the school’s inmates.

Spartacus’ successes made it inevitable that he would eventually be forced into a contest to the death. His opponent was a strapping German who belonged to another lanista. The fight had been hard, but Spartacus had prevailed. Phortis’ hope that he died in the arena had been firmly set aside by Batiatus, who was delighted by his new fighter’s success, and the amount of money he’d won as a result. The sea change in Spartacus’ situation was made evident by the size of the purse he was thrown afterwards, and by Batiatus’ approving looks. Instead of feeling pleased, he felt increased resentment towards the lanista. I’m no prize bull, to be paraded whenever you choose. His anger was fuelled to new heights by his abiding memory of the whole episode, which was not burying his blade in his opponent’s throat, but the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd that had followed. While he knew intimately the adrenalin thrill of killing a man, and a primitive part of him took pleasure in the sensation, Spartacus loathed the way random people could pay to watch him commit the act and enjoy that feeling vicariously. Let the whoresons come down on to the sand and do it for themselves, he had thought savagely. I’ll wager that few could actually shove a sword into another’s flesh they way that I can. His eyes had drifted to the guards. The way that I could kill every one of you.

From that moment. Spartacus’ troubling vision of the snake had been interspersed with a regular dream about freedom. For all that it seemed impossible, the idea would not go away.

Carbo’s life, had definitely improved. He had won his first two fights, and with them, small sums of money which he carefully salted away. These steps encouraged him hugely. If the gods kept him safe from injury or death, he would save until he had a decent amount of cash to send to his father. Sometimes he dreamed of gaining retribution on Crassus. It was pure fantasy, but enjoyable nonetheless. Carbo found dealing with his attraction to Chloris more troubling. He couldn’t stop himself eyeing her up at every opportunity, and resenting Amatokos, her strapping lover. Yet it was common policy for the female slaves in the ludus to pair off with a gladiator. Without a guardian, they fell prey to every fighter who felt like sex. Unsurprisingly, Batiatus cared not a jot about such violations. If the women became pregnant, nine months later he would have either a boy child who could be reared as a gladiator, or a girl who could be sold in the slave market when she was old enough. Knowing this did not ease Carbo’s frustration. He’d tried talking to Chloris, but Amatokos kept a close eye on her, and he’d been lucky to avoid a beating from the Thracian on one occasion.

Carbo wasn’t sure, but there was something about the way that Chloris slyly returned his stares which told him not to give up all hope. While Amatokos was around, however, nothing much would happen. The warrior was tough, fast, and had won more than half a dozen fights in the arena, including one mortal bout. All Carbo could do in answer to that was to apply himself mercilessly to his training, and pray to the gods. Despite his frustrations, he found the martial life rewarding — more so, he was sure, than he’d have found training to be a lawyer. If he couldn’t be a soldier, then he’d be a gladiator. And a damn good one.

Late one night, a messenger came to see Batiatus. Albinus, one of the most senior politicians in Capua, was playing host to no less than Marcus Licinius Crassus, a praetor who was reportedly the richest man in Rome. Apparently, Crassus had expressed an interest in visiting Batiatus’ ludus. Keen to impress, Albinus had offered the lanista a huge sum of money to stage a special fight in the school during Crassus’ visit. The gossip went that it was to be a combat to the death. Naturally, both gladiators were to be picked from within their number. The next morning, every part of the yard was filled with huddles of anxious, muttering fighters. The same question fell from everyone’s lips. Who would the two men be?

Batiatus, Phortis and the senior trainers strolled through the yard as the gladiators ate their breakfast. Most men picked morosely at their porridge, while they cast furtive glances at the group. Spartacus, refusing to be intimidated, made it his business to eat every last scrap in his bowl, while conducting a loud conversation with Getas, Seuthes and Carbo. In between the casual glances he was taking over his shoulder, Spartacus eyed the young Roman sidelong. Under his protection, Carbo’s zest for life had returned. He was becoming a skilled fighter. He seemed to be loyal too. How strange to have a Roman following me.

‘Do you really think Crassus is coming here?’ asked Carbo.

‘Sounds like it,’ replied Spartacus.

Carbo swore. ‘I’d love to have a few moments alone with him.’

‘What do you care about the prick? Have you met him?’

‘No.’ Quickly, Carbo told his story.

‘I’m not surprised you’d want to give him a good seeing-to.’ Spartacus thought of Kotys. What I’d do to you, you whoreson…

Carbo sighed. ‘Not that I’ll ever get a chance for revenge.’

‘You won’t,’ Spartacus growled. And nor shall I. ‘Get used to it.’

Catching the sharp tone in the Thracian’s voice, Carbo fell silent. I’d still love to thrash Crassus within a whisker of his life.

Phortis began to call out names. He did not pick any rookies, Spartacus noted. This clash had to impress, and therefore experienced gladiators would fit the bill better. It wasn’t long before the Capuan had picked out five men — two Germans, a pair of Thracians and a Gaul. Spartacus also saw that the most successful fighters, individuals such as Oenomaus and Crixus, had not been selected. Batiatus wanted to put on a good show, but he wasn’t going to lose one of his best gladiators. Do I qualify as one of those yet? Spartacus wondered. He had nowhere near the stature of someone like Crixus, who had more than thirty victories to his name.

Those chosen stood miserably near Batiatus and Phortis.

‘Are these sufficient, master?’

Batiatus rubbed his jaw. ‘No. I want one more.’

Spartacus tensed. He could feel Phortis’ eyes boring into the side of his head.

‘Spartacus!’

He locked eyes with Getas, and then Seuthes. Both their mouths opened and closed, like fishes out of water. Carbo also looked stricken.

‘Spartacus! Get out here!’

He strode out to stand with the five other fighters. He looked at none of them.

Batiatus approached, Phortis at his right shoulder, and the trainers a few steps behind.

‘Tell me about each one.’

The trainers filled the lanista in. Phortis threw in a comment here and there. The rest of the fighters watched from their benches, Crixus prominent among them.

‘This one won’t fight well. He’s not confident enough,’ said Batiatus, dismissing the Gaul.

Looking relieved, the man hurried back to the safety of his comrades.

Two others were also allowed to go, leaving a strapping German, a black-haired Thracian and Spartacus, the last candidate. The tension raised several notches, and the three gave each other wary looks. The muscles in Spartacus’ jaw bunched. The man was a tough proposition. Spartacus had seen him training, and heard about his last fight, when he’d defeated a far more experienced Gaul from another ludus.

Batiatus paced up and down, studying the trio. ‘Give me their details again,’ he ordered.

The trainers obeyed.

Spartacus stared rigidly in front of him. Is this what my dream is about? he wondered. Breathe. Keep breathing.

‘One Gaul, but two Thracians,’ mused Batiatus. ‘Why am I not surprised by that?’

Phortis chuckled. ‘Because they’re quarrelsome whoresons, master?’

‘Probably,’ replied Batiatus with a smile. He stared at the black-haired warrior. ‘Should I pick you?’

‘No, master,’ muttered the Thracian in heavily accented Latin. ‘I

… new recruit. Not good enough… fighter.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ said Batiatus, turning to one of the trainers, who gave a vigorous nod. ‘Apparently, you’re one of the best tirones that we’ve had in years. Plus I hear that your tribe is on poor terms with the Maedi, his people.’ He jerked his head at Spartacus. ‘I think that you’d make an excellent candidate for this fight.’ The Thracian said nothing, and Batiatus smirked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

There was still no reply, and Batiatus glanced at Spartacus. ‘What about you? Should you take part?’

‘No,’ replied Spartacus firmly.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be a complete waste of my abilities, master.’

Batiatus’ eyebrows rose. ‘How so?’

‘If I kill the other man quickly — and there’s a very good likelihood of that — you’ll have lost in either of these an excellent gladiator. If by some small chance, however, I am slain, you will never have the opportunity to see what kind of fighter I can be.’

‘Proud words. Confident words,’ Batiatus proclaimed. ‘Yet how can you expect me to believe that you can defeat either of these two men? They’re both courageous, skilled fighters.’

‘What you believe is up to you, master,’ Spartacus answered, steely-eyed. ‘But in my previous fights for the ludus, I’ve barely even been tested.’ Behind Batiatus, he caught Phortis scoffing. Spartacus stared at him with complete hatred. Gods willing, I’ll nail you one day, you bastard.

Batiatus heard the Capuan’s snigger. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘The dog’s lying, master! He’s a capable enough gladiator, but nowhere near Crixus’ class, for example.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because of the way he fights,’ Phortis exclaimed. ‘He’s won all his bouts, but not in a champion’s manner.’

‘It’s easy to be economical. I’ve just done what it took to get by,’ said Spartacus truthfully. He gave the Capuan a scornful glance. Why would I bother stretching myself for a miserable cocksucker like you?

The veins in Phortis’ neck bulged. ‘You fucking-’

‘Enough,’ said Batiatus. His gaze grew calculating. ‘He could be lying, but then again he might not be. Why be surprised that a man in his situation only did the bare minimum? It’s probably what a lot of them do.’

Phortis lapsed into a spluttering silence, giving Spartacus the briefest twinge of satisfaction. The feeling vanished when Batiatus looked from him to the Gaul to the black-haired Thracian — and back again. Spartacus didn’t drop his gaze. Despite the gods’ apparent capriciousness, he would face his fate like a man. At the same time, it was hard not to feel that this was what his dream about the snake had portended.

Batiatus walked to stand in front of the German, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, wouldn’t meet his gaze. That was enough for the lanista. ‘Piss off,’ he barked. ‘Coward.’ As the German obeyed, Batiatus’ attention shot back to the black-haired Thracian. ‘You’ll do,’ he pronounced. ‘In fact, I think you will be a worthy adversary for Spartacus.’

The man nodded jerkily.

Spartacus waited to be dismissed. Just because the snake was around my neck doesn’t mean that I couldn’t kill it, he told himself. Yes, I would need the Rider’s help, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

‘Go on, then! Get yourself ready,’ snarled Phortis at the black-haired Thracian. ‘The fight starts at midday.’

As the warrior sloped away, Batiatus’ cold eyes returned to Spartacus. ‘If you survive this bout, you had best impress me from now on. If I’m not happy, I’ll set up a fight with Crixus. To the death. I don’t give a damn about how much money you’ve made me so far. Understood?’

‘Yes.’ Somehow, Spartacus knew that the mocking laugh he could hear was that of Crixus.

‘Insolent arse wipe! Yes, master,’ growled Phortis.

Spartacus gritted his teeth. ‘Yes, master.’

‘Good. Now piss off, before you test Batiatus’ goodwill even more.’

His goodwill? thought Spartacus sourly. He kept his mouth shut, however. Backchat could earn him a flogging, and that was the last thing he needed. He’d have to be on top form to defeat the black-haired warrior.

Shortly before Albinus was to arrive with his prestigious guest, the fighters were forced to return to their quarters. While it didn’t come as a surprise to Carbo — why give nearly two hundred dangerous men access to nobility? — the order infuriated him. Once he was in his cell, there was no possible way he could harm Crassus. The gladiators were also angered by the move, but Phortis had been expecting their response. Deploying all the guards, armed with bows, he ordered everyone into their quarters. The more reluctant individuals were encouraged with strokes of his whip. A torrent of abuse rained down on the Capuan as he locked door after door. Objects — coins, cups and oil lamps — were hurled from the cell windows. The insults and missile-throwing made no difference. Within a quarter of an hour, the courtyard had been emptied.

The semicircular seating area which filled one end of the yard now looked immense. It could comfortably hold five hundred people. Being the only people to occupy it would reinforce the extravagance of Albinus’ gesture to his guest, thought Carbo. Batiatus knew how to throw a grand spectacle. Yet Capua’s arena was even more impressive. The huge circular edifice was constructed from great slabs of stone, decorated with statues of the gods and towered over the neighbouring residential buildings. Carbo didn’t know how many citizens packed in to see the gladiator contests, but it must be several thousand. During the frequent visits he’d made there, Carbo had never imagined that one day he would actually fight on the circle of sand within. But that day was fast approaching. His training was nearly over. Carbo was looking forward to it. His time as a wet-behind-the-ears tiro was nearly over.

Soon Spartacus and the black-haired Thracian appeared. Carbo studied them both closely. Nervously. Spartacus’ had only a single greave against the other’s two, but that was of little consequence, for his mail shirt and scutum offered a great deal more protection than his opponent’s helmet, manica and small, square shield. The pair threw each other wary glances while their trainers muttered in their ears. Phortis stood in the background, observing. There was no sign of Batiatus. He wouldn’t emerge until the important visitors arrived.

Carbo’s stomach twisted with tension. Since Spartacus had taken him under his wing, he’d spent plenty of time watching him train. He was good. Damn good. But so was the other Thracian. Carbo felt guilty that his concern stemmed only partly from his regard for Spartacus. If the black-haired warrior proved victorious, Carbo stood every chance of losing the protection he’d enjoyed in the previous few months. If that happened, life would become just as dangerous as it was in the arena. Carbo had no desire to return to the life he’d endured during the dark days after he’d first entered the ludus. Spartacus had to win.

Batiatus appeared the moment that Albinus and his party arrived. He was dressed in his best toga, his hair pomaded. His profuse, unctuous welcome turned Spartacus’ stomach. He studied Albinus, a self-satisfied, stout man with a pompous air, and his guest, Crassus, who was as broad-shouldered as his host was fat. A faintly supercilious expression was fixed on Crassus’ handsome face. He took his seat in the centre of the front row — the most prestigious place — with poor grace, complaining about the hard stone. Batiatus apologised and hissed a command at Phortis, who returned a moment later with a plump cushion. This seemed to mollify Crassus somewhat. With pursed lips, he sat down. Albinus, looking worried, took a place beside him. He was joined by Batiatus, while the rest of the party — low-ranking officials and bodyguards — went to sit on the top row of seats.

Carbo couldn’t stop staring at Crassus. He looks just as arrogant as I thought he would. Prick.

Spartacus was also eyeing him. The son of a whore looks as if he hasn’t had a shit in a week. He pulled his gaze away before the politician noticed. Don’t lose focus. Stay calm. Spartacus recalled how the icy look had melted from Ariadne’s face when she’d heard he’d been picked for this fight. He remembered what she’d said. Hung on to it. ‘This is not what your dream is about. It can’t be.’

Not being an organised munus, there was none of the usual pomp of the public spectacle. No group of trumpeters to march around the arena, playing for all they were worth. No slave-carried platforms with painted statues of the gods being honoured that day. No procession of the prizes on offer to the victors: palm branches and leather purses full of cash borne aloft on silver platters. When Spartacus and his opponent made their way, fully armed, to stand before Batiatus and the others, a solitary trumpet sounded.

In Carbo’s mind, this made the contest more ordinary, but far more chilling.

It was now that Batiatus came into his own. He waxed lyrical, describing the black-haired Thracian in glowing terms. He paid particular attention to his victories thus far. At a sign from Phortis, the Thracian raised his arms and turned a circle, so that Albinus and Crassus could admire his muscular physique. The lanista did the same for Spartacus.

The gladiators whistled and cheered for both men at the tops of their voices. The noise mingled in an ear-shredding crescendo that filled the ludus.

Watching from their cell, Ariadne’s breath caught in her chest. Despite herself, she admired Spartacus’ body, but this was the last situation she’d have chosen to see it exhibited. Would you prefer him in your bed then? She shoved away the disquieting thought.

With the preliminaries over, Phortis moved out on to the sand. He would act as the summa rudis, the referee for the bout. He ordered the two fighters to stand fifteen paces apart before looking to Batiatus. The lanista nodded and Phortis signalled to the trumpeter. A short series of notes rang out, and the Capuan stepped out of the way.

Spartacus didn’t barrel forward as he had in his fight against Carbo. Instead, he shuffled towards the warrior, his bare feet silent upon the sand. Moving with the grace of a dancer, his opponent did the same. Spartacus wasn’t prepared at all for the warrior’s speed and skill. When he was no more than half a dozen steps away, he suddenly broke into a sprint. Darting forward like a wolf closing in on a deer, he thrust his sica straight at Spartacus’ face. Spartacus had no time to raise his scutum. Desperately, he wrenched his head to the side. The warrior’s blade whistled past, missing his left cheek by a whisker length.

Spartacus roared with anger, but his opponent was already gone, using his momentum to deftly spin off, out of harm’s way. The movement brought the warrior around behind him. Spartacus turned to meet the next attack, another wicked stab at his face, which he managed to parry with his scutum. His riposte, a lunge that would have spitted the warrior through and through, met only thin air. Panting, they separated from each other.

Crassus leaned over and whispered in Albinus’s ear. When he’d finished, the portly politician gave Batiatus a pleased nod. ‘An impressive start.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ gushed the lanista.

Out on the sand, and oblivious to their audience, Spartacus and the warrior circled warily around one another.

Without warning, Spartacus launched a savage attack on his opponent. Using a one-two technique of punching forward with his shield boss followed by a brutal thrust of his gladius, he drove the warrior backwards across the arena. His opponent had no option but to retreat. No one could stand against such an overwhelming assault. Spartacus’ tactic worked. Before long, one of the warrior’s feet slipped, and he stumbled backwards, falling on his backside.

Spartacus yelled in triumph. Drawing back his gladius, he prepared to run the defenceless warrior through. He gave no thought to Batiatus or Crassus, and whether they wanted him to kill the other so fast. He’d gone into battle mode, when all that mattered was finishing one’s opponent as quickly as possible.

But the fight wasn’t over.

In desperation, the warrior raised his left arm. Swinging his shield around like a discus, he smashed its metal-rimmed edge into Spartacus’ right knee.

The impact made Spartacus stagger. Roaring in pain, he dropped the point of his sword, giving his opponent a chance. The warrior rolled away and scrambled to his feet, swiftly launching a counter-attack of his own, a relentless flurry of slashes aimed at Spartacus’ unprotected face. It was all Spartacus could do to lift his scutum and deflect the other’s blows. And then the warrior changed his tactic. Spinning with the grace of a maenad in ecstatic frenzy, he swung around to Spartacus’ rear again. With consummate skill, he brought his sica down in a flashing arc, across the back of Spartacus’ shield arm. Blood sprayed into the air. Spartacus’ answering bellow was a combination of shock, pain and rage.

Albinus and Crassus called out in appreciation.

‘ Iugula! Iugula! ’ shouted many of the gladiators.

Ariadne closed her eyes, but the bloodthirsty cry still echoed in her ears. Steeling herself, she stared out at the arena again. Dionysus, do not give up on him.

Gods above, it can’t end like this, Carbo thought, offering up desperate prayers.

A feral smile twisted the black-haired warrior’s face as he closed in again. Spartacus snarled back, letting him know that he was far from finished. His opponent began a new attack, probing forward with his sica as a child might poke a stick at a crab. He met Spartacus’ weakened ripostes easily with his shield.

Clever bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s seeing how much strength I have left in my bad arm. Twisting it so he could see, he assessed the long, shallow wound. It didn’t look to have severed any muscles or tendons, but he was already struggling against the weight of his scutum.

Even as Spartacus looked up, the warrior’s blade hissed in. He jerked away, but still received a nasty cut on his right cheek. An involuntary hiss of pain left his lips. Rider, help me! I could easily lose this.

The warrior clearly thought so too. A little smile flickered across his lips. All he had to do was stay out of reach, and keep chipping away.

Spartacus cursed silently. His opponent was shrewd. Thanks to the wound on his arm, wearing him down wouldn’t take long. But he wasn’t finished yet. Not with his life at stake. Not with Ariadne to look after.

Letting out a shrieking war cry, Spartacus threw himself forward. With supreme effort, he kept his scutum high. Over and over he thrust his gladius at the warrior, who desperately defended himself with his small shield. It was a risky plan, but Spartacus didn’t have long before his strength really began to fail.

As his sword struck the warrior’s shield for the seventh or eighth time, the blade drove through the leather covering. It splintered the wood beneath to emerge on the other side. The warrior goggled, amazed that he hadn’t been gutted. He fell back a step, and Spartacus saw a golden opportunity. Ripping his weapon free, he shoved it into the other’s shield again. And again. Within a few heartbeats, it had cracked apart, and the warrior was forced to discard it. Looking scared now, he retreated further.

Spartacus had to pause to catch his breath. The pain from his arm was coming in waves, lancing up into his shoulder and beyond. He was no longer able to keep his scutum high enough to protect his throat. Nonetheless, he couldn’t let up his assault. Clenching his jaw, he went at the warrior like a wild beast. His gladius’ thrusts were so savage that his opponent had no chance to strike at his neck. It took every scrap of skill that the warrior possessed just to avoid Spartacus’ long iron blade.

Fortunately, the warrior’s good fortune ran out before Spartacus’ own strength failed. His sword sliced into the side of the black-haired fighter’s belly, through the taut muscles there, to emerge red-tipped on the other side. There was a wet, soughing sound as Spartacus ripped the gladius free, and the warrior shrieked with the agony of it. With blood pouring from his wound, he staggered away, his sica dangling from his slack fingers. When Spartacus followed, there was little resistance. Two massive overhand blows, and the warrior had dropped his weapon. Spartacus ploughed on, pushing the other away from the curved sword, and any chance of redemption.

The warrior was unarmed now, and the manica on his right arm was his only defence. Of the two, his wound was far more serious. He was therefore desperate to retrieve his sica. Spartacus met every attempt with unbridled fury, however, and with each moment that passed, the warrior grew weaker. Spartacus didn’t delay. Toying with an opponent might please some, but it was not in his nature. The fight had gone on long enough. He needed to get his arm seen to. It was time to end it.

Shoving his shield boss at the other’s chest, Spartacus stabbed him in the left thigh. As the blade slid free, the moaning warrior collapsed to the sand. He made no attempt to get up.

A loud roar rose from most of the cells as the gladiators showed their approval.

Ariadne closed her eyes, and sagged with relief against the bars of the window.

Thank all the gods, thought Carbo.

Looking down at his opponent, defenceless and bleeding, Spartacus felt cold to the marrow of his bones. The warrior was one of his own, and he was about to kill him — at the behest of those he hated. Romans. At this moment, this is the way it has to be, he told himself fiercely. He glanced at Batiatus, who turned with a questioning look to Albinus and Crassus. ‘Do you still wish this to be a mortal bout?’

‘Have I said otherwise?’ asked Crassus in an acid tone.

Batiatus coloured. ‘No.’

‘Then the loser must die.’

‘It is as my revered guest says,’ said Albinus pompously. ‘It’s also what I paid you a fortune for,’ he added in an undertone.

‘Of course, sir.’ Batiatus swiftly regained his poise. ‘It would be my honour to ask Crassus if he wishes to make the gesture.’

Crassus’ tongue flickered over his lips, like that of a snake. ‘Very well.’ Looking at Spartacus, he jabbed the thumb of his right hand at his own throat. ‘ Iugula! ’ he ordered.

At once the cry was repeated by the incarcerated gladiators. Feet hammered on the floor of the cells. Spoons clattered off the window bars. The din was incredible. Spartacus wasn’t surprised that the ludus’ inmates approved of his victory. Their bloodlust had been roused by the fight’s intensity and now the black-haired warrior had to pay the price. As he would have if the situation had been reversed. ‘Get up,’ he ordered.

Groaning, the black-haired fighter managed to sit up. Fiddling with the knot, he undid his chinstrap and tugged off his helmet. It fell unnoticed to the ground. Another effort brought him on to his knees. Spartacus inclined his head in respect. ‘You fought well. It was a close contest. But the Rider chose to help me, not you.’

‘He did,’ replied the warrior, grunting with pain. He lifted his head up, exposing his throat. ‘Make it swift.’

‘I will,’ Spartacus promised. He looked up at the sky. ‘I offer this man’s life to you, Great Rider.’

Without delay, he took aim and thrust his gladius down into the hollow at the base of the warrior’s neck. The man’s eyes opened wide with shock as the sharp iron slid through his skin and the soft tissues beneath. An instant later, he was dead. Driven with immense force, the blade had sliced apart the major vessels around the base of his heart. With a smooth movement, Spartacus pulled out the gladius. A thick, graceful arc of blood sprayed through the air as the warrior’s corpse fell limply to one side. It pumped out for a short time, creating a large red stain around the motionless corpse.

Crassus began to clap slowly in appreciation. Batiatus, Phortis and the rest of those watching joined in. So did the gladiators, roaring and shouting their pleasure from their cell windows.

Unmoved for once by the ovation, Spartacus stared down at the body, and the scarlet colouring the sand. That could so easily have been me, he thought. And then the Roman bastards would have been applauding him, while I lay dead before them. Fuck them all.

Feeling the weight of someone’s stare, he looked up.

‘Come here!’ Crassus beckoned.

His mere tone made Spartacus’ knuckles whiten on the hilt of his gladius. ‘Me?’

‘I’m hardly talking to him, am I?’ Crassus indicated the dead warrior. He glanced at Albinus and Batiatus, who both tittered dutifully.

Arrogant bastard. Spartacus took a step forward.

Go on, thought Carbo. Kill the whoreson!

‘Archers!’ bellowed Phortis.

Spartacus froze. Without even turning his head, he could see four bows levelled at him from the balcony. There’d be at least another six to ten outside his range of vision. If Phortis said the word, they’d turn him into a practice target. The Capuan wanted him to keep walking, but Spartacus did not move. His had been a tiny act of rebellion, but it was over.

‘Drop the sword!’ ordered Phortis.

‘What, this?’ Spartacus raised the weapon. He was pleased to see Batiatus flinch slightly. Neither the Capuan nor Crassus reacted. He was surprised by the politician’s calm.

‘Just do it,’ snarled Phortis. ‘Unless you want to choke to death on a dozen barbed arrowheads!’

Spartacus opened his fingers and let the bloodied gladius fall to the sand. ‘Happy now?’

Phortis’ nostrils pinched. He glanced at Batiatus, who jerked his head meaningfully. The Capuan swallowed his rage. ‘Approach!’

Spartacus obeyed.

‘That’s close enough!’ shouted Phortis when he was ten steps away.

Gods damn them all! I’m being treated like a wild beast. Now Spartacus couldn’t stop himself from glowering at Phortis, who smirked.

‘You fight well,’ said Crassus. ‘For a savage.’

‘Savage?’ retorted Spartacus.

‘Yes.’

‘Where I come from, we do not force men to slay each other for the amusement of…’ He laid special emphasis on the last words. ‘… important visitors.’

Batiatus leaped up from his seat. ‘How dare you?’ He waved his arm in furious summons. ‘Guards! I want this man tied to the palus and given fifty lashes.’

‘Stay your hand,’ said Crassus.

Shocked, Batiatus glanced at his guest. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard what I said. Let it go. The slave has a point, after all.’

With a confused look, Batiatus sat down again.

‘While Thracians may not stage gladiator fights, they are nonetheless barbarians. They are called brigands even by other brigands,’ declared Crassus smugly. ‘I’ve heard how every five years, the Getai nobility pick one of their number to serve as messenger to the gods. He’s sent on his way by tossing him in the air to land on his comrade’s spears.’ As Batiatus and Albinus tutted in horror, Crassus smiled. ‘And the Triballi regard it as normal for sons to sacrifice their fathers to the gods. Scarcely the acts of civilised people, eh?’

Spartacus scowled.

‘Am I not right?’

‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted reluctantly.

‘You’re surprised by how much I know of your race.’

He nodded.

‘You are a proud man,’ observed Crassus.

Spartacus did not answer.

‘It galls you to be a slave? A gladiator?’

‘Yes.’ He’d said it before he could stop himself. ‘Of course it does.’

Spartacus threw Phortis a filthy stare. The Capuan’s lip curled in response. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

‘That’s what every man says,’ interjected Batiatus.

Albinus and Phortis laughed.

Whoresons, thought Spartacus.

Crassus smiled politely at the joke, but his attention remained on Spartacus. ‘How did it happen?’

Spartacus blinked in surprise that the other should ask. ‘I returned to my village after fighting with the legions-’

‘You fought for Rome?’

‘Yes. For eight years. Upon reaching home, I discovered that the rightful heir to the throne had been murdered by the man who now calls himself King of the Maedi. So had my father. I immediately made plans to overthrow the usurper, but I was betrayed.’

‘By whom?’

‘A friend.’

‘It’s no surprise that you are bitter. And what would you have done if you had achieved your aim?’

Spartacus hesitated, holding Crassus’ gaze, and wondering if he should keep silent. But he was too angry to stop. ‘After putting Kotys and his henchmen to death, I would have made plans to lead my tribe against Rome again.’

Crassus arched an eyebrow. ‘And what would have been your aim?’

‘To drive the legions off our lands. Forever.’

‘Forever?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must know little of Rome and its history,’ said Crassus with an amused look. ‘Even if you had succeeded, our armies would have returned in vengeance. They always do.’

‘You have led legionaries into war?’ demanded Spartacus.

For the first time, Crassus’ self-assurance faltered. ‘Not abroad.’

‘Where then?’

‘Against my own people, in a civil war.’

It’s no surprise you did that, thought Carbo savagely. You have no mercy.

‘And I thought that I was the savage?’ asked Spartacus.

‘This is too much,’ protested Batiatus.

‘Be silent! I am still talking to this…’ Crassus hesitated. ‘… gladiator.’ He added in a hiss, ‘At least he doesn’t see the need to lick my arse.’

Batiatus flushed and looked away. Beside him, Albinus harrumphed in quiet indignation.

Encouraged by this tiny victory, Spartacus quickly continued, ‘I would have unified the tribes. What would Rome have made of that?’ He was pleased by the trace of fear in Albinus’ and Batiatus’ eyes. Phortis bristled, but did not dare speak while Crassus, his better, held the floor. A man who showed no apprehension at Spartacus’ words at all. No career soldier then, but he’s not short of courage. I wonder if he could lead an army, as I could.

‘You risk much by revealing this. A single word from me, and you’ll be a dead man,’ said Crassus, ignoring Batiatus’ alarm.

Spartacus cursed himself silently for having let his anger speak first. He looked down at the sand. Great Rider, I ask for your help once more.

‘I won’t give the order, however.’ Crassus inclined his head at the lanista, who beamed in gratitude. ‘Why? Because there’s more chance of the heavens falling than you leading an army against Rome. Look at you! Reduced to fighting for our amusement.’ He smiled maliciously. ‘You’re little more than a performing animal, damned to perform the same primitive dance whenever we demand it.’

Spartacus dropped his gaze even lower, as if in subservience. Inside, however, he was incandescent with rage. ‘That’s all I am, yes,’ he said. Or so you think. Give me half a chance, and I’d show you different.

Crassus turned away, satisfied. ‘After all that bloodshed, I feel the need for some wine.’ At once Batiatus jumped in, promising fine vintages in the humble luxury of his quarters. ‘Good.’ Crassus added in an undertone, ‘If you have other fighters of similar quality, we can do business. I’ll want that Thracian, but I will need at least twenty more for my upcoming munus.’

Spartacus’ ears pricked, but Phortis had noticed him. ‘Piss off. Get that wound seen to.’

The last he heard was Batiatus asking, ‘All mortal bouts?’ and Crassus barking in reply, ‘Naturally. I need to impress.’

From his cell, Carbo hawked and spat in Crassus’ direction. Great Jupiter, bring me face to face with him one day, please.

Spartacus shuffled off towards the infirmary. His mind was racing. Crassus’ contempt had driven home further than ever before the triviality of his existence. If he was soon to be forced into another fight to the death, what was the point in carving out a following and a position of respect among the gladiators in the ludus? He was nothing but a child’s toy. A Roman plaything.

A seething fury took hold of him. Spartacus recognised and welcomed the volcanic emotion. It was how he’d felt when he was riding to war with the Maedi against Rome, a lifetime ago. How he’d felt when plotting to overthrow Kotys. This time, he only had thirty or so men who’d follow him, but that no longer mattered.

He saw the snake wrapped around his neck, but shoved the disturbing image away.

Something had to be done.

Somehow he had to be free.